Storm Clouds
by illuminata79
Summary: As Mick and Evelyn are eagerly awaiting the birth of their first child, some dark storm clouds are brewing on the horizon.
1. Chapter 1

Not long to go now until the baby will be born, but the happy anticipation is not entirely undisturbed, as some clouds are appearing on the horizon.

Here's the soundtrack song:

**Jars of Clay - Flood**

_Rain, rain on my face _  
_It hasn't stopped raining for days _  
_My world is a flood _  
_Slowly I become one with the mud _

_But if I can't swim after forty days _  
_And my mind is crushed by the thrashing waves _  
_Lift me up so high that I cannot fall _  
_Lift me up _  
_Lift me up - when I'm falling _  
_Lift me up - I'm weak and I'm dying _  
_Lift me up - I need you to hold me _  
_Lift me up - Keep me from drowning again _

_Downpour on my soul _  
_Splashing in the ocean, I'm losing control _  
_Dark sky all around _  
_I can't feel my feet touching the ground _

_But if I can't swim ..._

_Calm the storms that drench my eyes _  
_Dry the streams still flowing _  
_Cast down all the waves of sin _  
_And guilt that overthrow me _

_But if I can't swim ..._

_Lift me up - when I'm falling _  
_Lift me up - I'm weak and I'm dying _  
_Lift me up - I need you to hold me _  
_Lift me up - Keep me from drowning again_

* * *

I was a little nervous and rather distracted as I rang up people's purchases and helped them find what they were looking for.

Evelyn had woken up in the middle of the night, uttering low noises that were not quite moans, apparently trying not to wake me, but I had not been sleeping well anyway after a nightmare in which I had been carrying a young child through a menacing snake-infested jungle, finding every escape route I tried blocked by all kinds of obstacles.

She had experienced early contractions before, which her obstetrician had told her was absolutely normal, but they had never been this painful, she said when I asked what was wrong, and she said she was afraid the baby was coming prematurely, more than three weeks before the estimated due date.

Against my own worries, I had told her that everything would be fine, that it wasn't unusual for kids to be born two or three weeks early.

As if I had any clue about babies, I thought wryly as I held her in my arm to calm her down a little and then went on to massage her back as she requested me to.

I had been unsure about leaving for work, but when no further pains had occurred until eight, the time I usually left the house, she told me to go. "You can't stay home for weeks just because it _might_ be the day the baby comes. Elliott wouldn't be amused", she said. "You go to work, and I'll call you if anything happens."

Thus I went, reluctantly, keeping an ear out for the phone at the shop, but so far, it had remained silent. Or I had not heard it ringing, this being a busy day.

"Mornin', Michael, my friend! Whatcha gawkin' at? Ghosts?"

I only realized I had been staring into the empty air when Stevie Pearson's croaky voice shook me from my thoughts.

"Mornin', Steve. What can I get you today?"

"Bits and pieces. Will fetch them myself. You stay seated right there and take it easy. You're lookin' like crap this mornin', if you'll pardon my French."

"Had a bad night", I replied. "Evelyn wasn't feeling well."

"Is she better now? How long until the baby's due?"

"Yes, she was much better in the morning. Thank God she's only got about three weeks to go now. It's really getting tough for her."

Stevie nodded knowingly – he had a bunch of kids himself – and disappeared between the shelves to find what he needed, coming back with a big can of varnish and some small items of fishing tackle, which he stowed into the various pockets of his shapeless coat while I tallied it all up.

"Well done, Stevie. Ten dollars exactly."

He chuckled and patted his coat and trouser pockets, then his face fell. "Darn, I must've left my wallet at home. Sorry, mate, gotta go to the bank first, and meanwhile ..."

He made to get all his little things back out, and I shook my head. "Go on home with your stuff, you can pay next time. You'll be back tomorrow anyway for all I know."

He grinned, tucked the can of paint under his arm and tipped his hat in greeting. "See ya tomorrow, then. And thanks."

"Mum's the word", I mouthed. If Elliott found out I had allowed Stevie, of all people, to put his purchase on the slate, there would be hell to pay.

Stevie made a my-lips-are-sealed gesture and took his leave, merrily waving at me.

In the afternoon, the shop was so crowded that Elliott actually ventured out of his office to lend a hand with the customers when he saw how much Dougal and I had to do.

Several of the regulars inquired about Evelyn and the baby. I had not made a big announcement of her pregnancy, but of course it had transpired that we were going to have our first child, and very soon now.

There was so much talk of it that even Elliott deigned to ask at some point, "How's your wife?"

"Fine, thanks", I said laconically.

He looked as if he had expected me to launch into some baby-related small talk, but I just could not imagine discussing back aches and premature contractions with Elliott Snow.

All three of us were glad when six o'clock arrived and we finally got to lock up after this long demanding day.

Having spent virtually all of it perched upon my stool behind the counter, I was feeling rather tense and stiff. I needed to stretch my legs a bit and decided to help Dougal tidy up the shop while Elliott busied himself with the daily closing.

I went to get a broom and was sweeping the floor at the far end of the shop when suddenly some clamour erupted at the counter.

At first, I couldn't understand a word, but then I clearly heard Dougal's desperate assertion, "I didn't take nothin', Mr. Snow! Honestly I didn't!"

"Then who did? Mr. Carpenter? Myself? Or maybe one of the customers walked round here and helped himself to a note or two from the cash register with everybody looking on? Don't be ridiculous, boy. Come on, confess. I know it was you."

"No, it wasn't! I didna do anything wrong! I swear I didn't!"

"How's that for jogging your memory, huh?"

"_Ouch!"_

I dropped my broom and made my way to the front as fast as I could, shocked to see that Elliott, the same man who never showed any kind of emotion, had grabbed Dougal by the ear and twisted it brutally.

"What's going on here?" I shouted. "Elliott, have you lost your mind? Let go of him before you rip off his ear!"

"The little bugger stole ten dollars, and he's got the nerve to deny it!"

Dougal gave me a pleading look, his face a grimace of pain. "I didn't steal anything", he whimpered.

"_Leave_ him!" I demanded again, bracing myself to intervene bodily if need be. "How can you be so certain he's a thief? Did you _see_ him take the money?"

Elliott grudgingly loosened his grip on the poor lad's ear and glared at me. "No, I didn't", he had to admit. "But who was it then, if not _him?" _His contempt for the boy of rather humble origin was tangible. "It's a fact that there are ten dollars missing. If it wasn't that little brat, there's just one person left who …"

"Are you sure you didn't just miscount the cash?" I asked matter-of-factly.

He shot me a poisonous look. "I never miscount the cash. Besides, I recounted twice, and the result was the same every time. So how would you explain this?"

Gradually, it began to dawn on me.

"Oh, damn … Elliott, I'm sorry, I guess I forgot to tell you something. Stev … Mr. Pearson came to buy some fishing tackle this morning, but he had left his wallet at home, and I told him he could pay tomorrow."

Elliott stared at me for a full minute, his chest heaving, his face puckering with silent rage, before he exploded.

"Who the heck do you think you are, Mick?" he yelled at the top of his voice. "I clearly remember giving you and that useless boy an explicit order with regard to putting purchases on the slate. I said I was not going to have that, and believe me, that Pearson bloke would be the last person I'd make an exception for! Why can't you ever do as you are told? If you won't take orders from anyone, fine, then you better go and set up your own shop. As long as you are working for me, though, you will have to stick to the rules. I've been far too indulgent with you all along. Do you think you can do as you please just because you've been around for longer than I have?"

"If it weren't for me and Dougal, you'd be out of business by now", I said with a calm I didn't feel.

Elliott was silent for a second before he hissed, "Don't get smart with me! You're really beginning to wear out my patience. I let that thing about the neckties fly, I never complain when you have your endless chats with people, I'm turning a blind eye to all your cigarette breaks, but I'm certainly not letting you endanger the business! Today, it's only Pearson, tomorrow it'll be two or three more asking could they perhaps pay later, and even more the day after, and there you have it!"

"Elliott, listen, don't you think …"

"No, you listen to me now! I don't want to hear your apologies and excuses! You give me ten dollars now to set the record straight, you see to it that Pearson pays up, and you will never, ever do that again, am I making myself clear?"

"Crystal clear. Abundantly clear." I scowled as I pulled two folded fivers from my pocket and tossed them onto the counter, adding acidly, "Are you finished shouting at me? I'd like to go home now. It's been a long day, and rather exhausting, too."

With that, I simply walked off and left through the back door, fuming inwardly, wondering what on earth had got into Elliott.

I didn't tell Evelyn about my run-in with my suddenly not-so-tongue-tied boss when I came home.

I had a headache by then, and all I wanted was peace and quiet.

We turned in early, lying spooned together in the dusk.

I began to caress her, trailing my hand down her front, feeling the baby move once or twice. I answered her kicks by tapping my fingers, glad that she was still safely in there despite the nightly scare.

"Take your time, little lady", I murmured, "no need to come out just yet."

Evelyn lazily replied, "Yes … but don't be _too_ long, please, otherwise I guess I'll simply burst."

I smiled and fell asleep soon, my hand still resting on her belly, reconciled with the world for the moment.

* * *

Two days later, I had almost forgotten about the episode with Elliott.

He apparently hadn't, or so I thought when he ordered me into his office late on Friday morning, his face inscrutable as always.

"Mick, I need to speak to you. Now."

I wondered if I was in for another dressing-down because I had broken another of his unwritten, unspoken rules and, shrugging behind his back, followed him into the small room behind the shop that had been a messy but kind of pleasant little office when it had still been Donnie who was in charge. Now it was frightfully tidy and utterly devoid of any charm.

Elliott sat behind the desk, peering up at me with what he probably thought was a sternly authoritative look. In fact, it was nothing but ridiculous in his bland, round face.

He didn't offer me a seat, so I remained standing, not unlike a defendant in the dock, the only difference being that I had no idea yet what I was going to be accused of.

Tapping a pencil on his green desk pad in an unnerving rhythm, he narrowed his eyes and said, "You were rather quick to find a nice little explanation for the missing money the day before yesterday …"

Unable to restrain myself, I interrupted him, "I didn't take the bleeding money, for Chrissake! Why should I?!"

He went on, unfazed, "… and it was quite clever to make Pearson your accomplice, of all people, who would be sure to corroborate your cock-and-bull story."

"There _is _no story, cock-and-bull or otherwise!" I growled.

"So why hasn't he been back with the money yet? Didn't you say he promised to pay on Thursday? Which was yesterday?"

"Yes …"

"And, did he show up? Did he?"

"No", I had to admit. "I guess he fell ill or something. Stevie _is_ a reliable, trustworthy guy."

Elliott snorted. "Just as reliable and trustworthy as you are, I presume?"

I raised an eyebrow, not sure what he was getting at.

"What I learned this morning finally proves you're not to be trusted. I know all about your false pretences."

"False … _pretences?"_ I screwed up my face, totally at a loss. "What on earth are you talking about?"

"Isn't it true that you are living in sin with that woman … that woman who's having your child?"

"I wouldn't call it _sin_, but no, we aren't married, if that's what you mean."

"You never told me that you were … not married."

"I didn't know I was required to", I said sarcastically. "And besides, you never asked."

"You never corrected me when I referred to your 'wife'." His clawed hands scratched invisible quotation marks into the air.

"You're right, I didn't. That's because for me, she is my wife in all but name", I said evenly.

Elliott spluttered, "I won't have that kind of … talk in this place, and I won't have any employee of mine living in sin! I'm a God-fearing man!"

"I can see that", I said bitingly. "You must be fearing him something awful if you're so afraid of my 'sin'" – I mimicked his quotation-mark gesture – "rubbing off on you, or on anyone else, just because we're doing business together."

"That's enough! I'm not going to take any more cheek from you", Elliott shouted. "You cheat, you lie, you fraternize with the customers and go behind my back, and now you start insulting me? _Go!_ You're _fired!"_

He was almost amusing in his excessive anger, with his face beet red and his voice keeling over. I half waited for him to bang his fist on the desk in theatrical affirmation.

I raised my eyebrow again and asked, "Are you sure that's what you want? Because if I go now, I surely won't be coming back."

"Go!" he screamed, eyes popping. "You leave this very minute, and don't even _dream_ of demanding any back pay!"

I was not going to beg him to keep me. It was no use arguing with idiots.

"You'll probably want me to give you this first." I pulled my duplicate key from my pocket and threw it at him. It slid across the desk and fell to the floor, jangling dissonantly, just as I turned to leave without a further word.

"Mick? Where are you going?" a familiar voice said as I pushed open the door and briskly marched outside. "I've come to pay my debt … I couldn't come yesterday because my …"

"Explain it all to _him_", I said, slightly exasperated, jerking my thumb over my shoulder, walking on past Stevie. "Me, I'm going home. Just got myself fired. Take care, old chap."

I clapped him on the shoulder and walked on. I heard his outcry of indignation but didn't stop to listen to his incredulous grunts and curses.

Gradually, what I had just done was beginning to sink in, and I slowed my steps once I had turned the corner.

I had picked a fight with my boss at a time when it would have been better to keep my mouth shut.

I had got myself fired three weeks before my baby was due.

While I didn't actually regret what I had said to Elliott, I did wish I had swallowed my rage in order to have it out with him at a later point.

I told myself I couldn't have known he'd react with such unreasonable harshness, but it was cold comfort.

I shouldn't have let that bigoted fool goad me into jeopardizing my job in the first place – the job my family depended on until Evelyn was going back to work – no matter how self-righteously he had discounted the way we had chosen to live.

Other people had done that before. Why had his holier-than-thou blathering upset me so?

I didn't know.

Neither did I know what to do, or where to turn to.

The only thing I knew for sure was that I could not go home just now. I was not yet ready to face Evelyn, to admit my self-inflicted defeat.

I dragged my feet as I walked to the bus stop, racking my brain for the right words to say.

There _were_ no right words for this, no gentle way to break it to her.

She would be terribly disappointed, and she had every right to be. Short of a leg _and_ out of a job, I was pretty much a failure as a husband, or whatever the appropriate term was for a bloke in my position.

I decided to give myself until my usual finishing time, which was at six.

I got on the first bus that came and rode all the way to the terminus, where I boarded another bus heading downtown.

For once, I didn't want to be alone. I had no wish to speak to anyone, but the bustle of the city might help pass the time until I couldn't put off the inevitable any more.

It was a wet day, not a particularly good one to be out and about, but the weather helped me blend into the crowd. No one took much notice of me as I stumbled through streets grey with rain. People hurried past me, heads down, shoulders drawn up, sheltering from yet another downpour under their umbrellas or the brims of their hats, eager to get inside shops or tea rooms or homes.

I entered a tiny café and had some abominable coffee to kill a bit of time while I smoked two cigarettes and listlessly turned the pages of the day-old newspaper someone had left on the table.

Once I had drained my cup, I didn't feel like sticking around the dreary place, so I threw some coins onto the table and left, the horrible brew burning in my throat and stomach like acid.

A quick glance at my watch told me it was only half past three.

I walked on for a while, past the station towards Belmore Park, my hat pulled low on my forehead, until my leg began to ache.

I realized I wouldn't be able to walk much further without another break and entered the park, looking for a place to sit and rest for a bit.

Most of the benches were dripping, but there was one below a large tree that appeared reasonably dry. I sat down clumsily, trying to find a comfortable position for my sore leg, and lit another cigarette, brooding some more as I smoked it and stared unseeingly at a rain-drenched, half-withered patch of small flowers.

The rain diminished further until it was just a drifting damp mist that crept into my clothes and through into my skin and bones. I didn't mind it much - I had certainly seen a lot worse in my sailor days, and during the war, too - but eventually, I began to feel unpleasantly cold and clammy.

Shivering, I rose and walked to the exit, trying to remember where the nearest bus stop was.

"C'n I help you, Mister?" asked a teenage boy who was passing by, bright blue eyes in a freckled face, an insouciant grin showing a broad gap between strong front teeth.

"Looking for a bus stop", I replied hoarsely, and he pointed into the direction he had come from.

I thanked him, and he walked on, whistling tunelessly, apparently at ease with himself and the world despite the awful weather.

The first bus that drew near bore the familiar number of the line that would take me straight home, in less than thirty minutes.

Flinching, I waved it past and considered having another cup of bad coffee, or something stronger, somewhere nearby to fortify myself for the dreaded way home.

A vehicle pulled up at the curb in front of me. I ignored it, ostentatiously turning my head to one side, pretending I was waiting for somebody to arrive.

The harsh noise of a blaring horn startled me out of my purported indifference. Annoyed at my own skittishness, I snorted contemptuously and shot the driver a dirty glance.

He leaned over, rolled down the passenger window and shouted something.

What business did that figure have hollering at me? Was everybody bent on being nasty to me on this goddamn day? Wasn't it enough that I had let my job go down the drain and spent half the day roaming the city like a sleepwalker until my leg was screaming abuse?

I took a deep breath, ready to give that offensive stranger an earful he wouldn't forget any time soon.

He yelled out again, and this time, I understood what he was saying.

"Mick! Hey, Mick!"

I exhaled slowly and dropped my gaze to have a closer look at the speaker, expecting him to be some fleeting acquaintance, someone I certainly wouldn't have any desire to see.

It was none other than my best friend Joseph Schell.

"What the hell are you d-doing out there in that filthy weather?" he inquired. "And why didn't you g-get on that bus? Don't you want to go home? Come on, get in, I'll g-give you a ride. You look like you've been through the wringer several times over."

"That sums it up pretty well", I said glumly and folded myself into the passenger seat of Joseph's Ford.

"Bad day? Your n-new boss?"

"My former boss, more like."

Joseph didn't say a word for a moment, then the meaning apparently sank in. "Your _f-former _boss?" he asked, his tone alarmed. "You're not s-saying he …"

"Yes, he did", I said laconically. I didn't feel up to any big explanations.

"Oh, damn." Joseph drove on without speaking, chewing his lip thoughtfully, the slapping noise of the windshield wipers the only sound beyond the patter of the rain that had become heavier again.

After a while, he asked, "Evelyn doesn't know yet, huh?"

I took a deep breath and remained silent, avoided looking at him.

"So that's why you d-didn't take that bus, isn't it? B-because you d-didn't want to g-go home and t-tell her just yet?"

My lips kicked up into a bitter smile for a second. "You know me way too well, Joseph. Way too well." I sighed, and my mouth tightened when an awful thought struck me again, one that I had refused to acknowledge before. "It's not just that I hate having to tell her, you know. I fear she'll … start having the baby. Isn't that what happens if a pregnant woman gets too upset?"

I would never forgive myself if anything happened to the baby because it had been forced into the world too early.

"I d-don't think Evelyn will g-get _that _upset", Joseph said. "And besides, there's n-no need to b-be afraid, with the baby due so soon. Both Conrad and Henry were two weeks early and s-strapping healthy lads nevertheless."

I didn't answer. I knew he was right, but this new fear wasn't so easily dispelled.

I was so caught up in my brooding that I only realized we had arrived when Joseph asked quietly, "D-Do you want me to come inside with you?"

"Thanks, but no. I'm not that big a coward."

I remained seated and listened for a silent minute as the rain drummed on the roof of the car without cease before I opened the door abruptly and awkwardly got out, murmuring my thanks for the ride.

I limped the short distance to the front door with my head ducked low, which didn't do much to keep the rain out of my face.

When I dug the key from my pocket, I half expected my hands to be shaking so much that I would hardly be able to put it into the lock, but it slid into the keyhole as smoothly as it usually did.

The flower pots on the windowsill, the fresh white paint on the door, the brick front were all the same as always.

So were the coats on the rack in the hallway when I entered, the long mirror, the small cabinet with the telephone on top. Even the white rose on the hall table looked no less fresh than it had looked in the morning.

So was Evelyn when she welcomed me with a kiss and a smile, pretty even in the shapeless brown wool gown she wore to accommodate her huge bump.

It was only me who wasn't the same.

She said something but I couldn't take it in.

"… aren't you glad?"

With a pang of guilt, I admitted, "Sorry, I was not really paying attention. Did you say you and the little lady are all right?"

"We're fine", she said. "What about you?"

"Oh, I'm … I'm fine, too", I lied.

She gave me a piercing look and a sceptical frown. "Are you sure?"

"Kind of. Just feeling a little under the weather, literally. I got all soaked in that dreadful rain, and my leg hurts, and I'm tired. Just let me sit down for a minute before I grab a bite to eat and then call it a day. A good night's sleep might work wonders."

_Bullshit. You know it won't. A good night's sleep will do nothing to bring your job back or make you any less of a loser._

I dropped into an armchair, shuddering. I was cold, a sensation that wasn't helped by my wet trouser legs and damp jacket, but I couldn't bring myself to get up and change.

I just sat there, my face buried in my hands, like a little child pretending he's not there.


	2. Chapter 2

Something was off, I could feel it. I hadn't liked the look of him the moment he walked through the door. Those tense, hunched shoulders, the tired eyes, the absent-mindedness were not just the result of an exhausting day.

I assumed there had been another ugly confrontation with that God-awful Elliott. I had never met the man, but I loathed him for slowly but surely spoiling the pleasure Mick had always taken in his job at the boating-supplies shop.

As he settled into a chair in the living-room, I retreated into the kitchen and began to set the table, calling out for him to come over for supper when I was done.

When he still hadn't shown up after ten minutes, I went to look for him.

He had slumped into the big armchair by the cold fireplace, hanging his head in exhaustion. This must have been a hell of a day, or his leg was giving him a lot more trouble than he cared to admit. Or both.

"Mick", I said gently. "Don't you want to …"

He raised his head slowly and blinked at me bleary-eyed. "Huh? Oh. Must've fallen asleep." He rubbed his left eye and cheek and pushed himself up from the chair with some effort.

His limp was worse than usual as he walked into the kitchen ahead of me.

During the meal, he chewed on his food rather half-heartedly without speaking much.

I ached to know what was eating him, but of course he'd never let on anything if I pressed him, so I held my tongue except to talk of trivial things.

Getting up from the table, he winced as if in pain, and when he left the room, saying he was going to have a nightcap in the living-room, he was markedly favouring his bad leg.

I cleared the table and stacked the dirty plates in the sink, deciding I'd wash them tomorrow.

By the time I went into the living-room, he wasn't there any more. An empty beer bottle sat on the side table. He must have drained it more or less in one go.

I found him in the bedroom, sitting on the edge of the bed, wrapping his leg stump with an elastic bandage. This was supposed to prevent or reduce swelling caused by overstrain, but he hardly ever did it unless the pain became unbearable.

"That bad?" I asked sympathetically.

"Uh-huh. I'm going to bed in a minute. Sleep it off."

I watched him unhappily as he picked up the crutches and headed for the bathroom, frustrated that I still couldn't figure out what was wrong.

He did not say a word when he returned, just gave me a perfunctory good-night kiss.

By the time I came back from my own trip to the bathroom, he was asleep, or pretended to be.

He had curled up into a ball, covers drawn up to his ears, his face burrowed into the pillow, a dishevelled array of short dark curls all that I could see of him.

"Good night", I whispered.

He didn't answer, nor did he react when I kissed him on the neck, just below the ear.

Certain that I wouldn't be able to sleep yet, I took up the novel on my nightstand to distract myself from Mick's odd behaviour, but the story failed to grip me, and my eyelids began to droop after I had read just a couple of pages.

I put the book away, for once grateful for the fatigue that is the eternal companion of the pregnant woman, and rolled over into the only sleeping position that was still half convenient, on my side with an extra pillow stuffed between my knees.

When I woke up, feeling hot, it was completely dark outside except for the light of the crescent moon. My back ached, and I knew the only way to make it behave would be to get up and move around a little.

I threw back the covers and rose, massaging the small of my back with the knuckles of one hand as I felt my way to the door with the other and made for the kitchen to get myself a drink of water.

Chilly air touched my bare legs upon entering the living-room. I hugged my arms around my chest, shivering.

One of the French doors was cracked open, which accounted for the draught.

I went over to close it, annoyed with my pregnancy-addled brain. I had been sure I had shut the door before going to bed, but I had become so forgetful that it bordered on embarrassing. Next thing I knew, I'd probably leave the house without locking the front door, or I'd find myself outside without my key.

Just about to pull the door to, I saw a tiny flicker from the corner of my eye and froze.

Mick was out there, smoking in one of the lawn chairs, facing away from the house.

I hesitated with my hand on the doorknob. His posture clearly told me he wanted to be left alone, but I couldn't just let him sit out there. He'd catch his death in the cold night air.

He tapped some glowing ash to the ground, a bright orange sparkle in the dark, took another puff and stubbed out his cigarette with grim determination.

I opened the door and said softly, "Mick, please come inside. It's way too cold!"

His head jerked round, and he growled, "What are you doing up so late?"

"I could ask you the same question", I replied sharply. "And why on earth are you sitting in the garden?"

"You don't like me to smoke indoors, isn't that what you keep saying?"

"Well, _yes,_ but that doesn't mean I want you to stay outside for God knows how long when it's hardly more than fifty degrees. You'll get the cold of your lifetime!"

"So what if I do?"

"Heavens, I really hate when you get all self-destructive! Do come to bed and warm up."

"I'm not cold", he said stubbornly.

I clenched my fists helplessly in sudden anger and said harshly, "Fine, then. Stay out there all night for all I care. _I'm_ going back to bed now."

I turned on my heel and was not quite done crossing the large living-room when I heard a subdued curse, followed by the familiar irregular rhythm of his left foot and the crutches.

"It's bloody raining _again!" _he grumbled and stopped to close and lock the door.

"What did you expect of an April night? Sunshine and a balmy breeze?" I asked ironically, still somewhat irritated by his earlier abrasiveness. "Did you get wet?"

He made a dismissive gesture. "Don't think so. Don't fuss, will you?"

"I'm not fussing. I only want to know why you go to bed early because you're oh so tired and end up smoking on the cold patio in the middle of the night!"

His posture sagged almost imperceptibly, as if he had just given up resistance, had decided to stop stalling and surrender after all.

"Sit down with me for a minute?" It was half plea, half question, and it had an urgency to it that made me refrain from asking why we couldn't simply go to bed instead.

My chagrin dissolved completely when I watched him lowering himself into the armchair, pale and weary and a little forlorn in his faded brown pajamas with the empty right pant leg tucked into the waistband at the back and a tattered sweater thrown around his shoulders. He cupped his hand around the stump protectively, massaging it with nervous, fumbling fingers, his mouth twitching before he spoke in a toneless voice without looking at me.

"Evelyn … I guess there's something I gotta tell you."

I listened in disbelief as he relayed what had come to pass at work the day before yesterday, when he'd come home irritable and grumpy, and what had ensued today.

It broke my heart to hear his emotionless, hollow voice. I sat on the armrest of the chair and put an arm around him, but his body remained stiff under my touch, and I knew nothing I did now would be any comfort to him. It would take some time for him to recover from this unexpected blow.

The shop had been so much more than the place where he worked. He had loved his work, which had not just been some necessary bread job but the much-needed proof that he was still valuable, that he was useful, that there was a lot more that he could actually do than what he couldn't.

Without it, I feared he'd once more find himself trapped in a vicious circle of self-reproach, perceived worthlessness and depression. Not even the arrival of the baby would change much about that. If anything, it might make things worse. I knew how profoundly unhappy he had been about his inability to contribute to our household expenses during his convalescence, when there had only been the two of us to provide for.

As if he had read my mind, he added as an afterthought, "Now I can't even feed my own child."

"I'll take care of the feeding for the first months anyway", I said drily. "I'm the one with breasts, remember?"

He managed a very weak, fleeting smile. "You know what I mean."

"Sure I do. But don't paint too black a picture. See, I'll get paid for writing the odd article while I'm on maternity leave, the money from the textbook deal is due to pour in any moment, and if all else fails, we've still got all of the proceeds from the sale of the apartment."

"That's what _you_ have. I have nothing but a few dollars in the bank."

I rolled my eyes. _What's yours is mine _had always been a one-way street in Mick's mind. He would have given me the very last penny he owned and then some, but he never wanted to touch any of the money he felt was _mine_, although I had long before stopped making these distinctions.

"What counts is that we and the little one won't go hungry or barefoot, isn't it? We've made it through a whole lot worse than this. Yes, I know that won't convince you now", I hastened to add when I saw his face, "but we'll manage, believe me. You'll find another job and …"

"I'll never find another job like that."

"Okay, maybe it's too early to speak of another job", I conceded. "Give yourself a couple of weeks until you do anything. Try to relax. Clear your head."

He leaned forward, pinching the bridge of his nose as if he felt a headache coming on, and I reached for his other hand. It was cold, and I suggested that we finally go to bed. He didn't object.

I slipped under the covers and snuggled up to him very closely, hoping the warmth I'd had in excess ever since the early stages of pregnancy would help chase the chill from his body.

It was an uneasy night. Weird dreams woke me repeatedly, but I went under in an ocean of bizarre images again and again, of which I remembered nothing but a subliminal feeling of unease when I finally awoke to bright sunshine in my face, heralding a surprisingly beautiful autumn day.

I was almost happy for a tiny moment, until reality kicked in and I recalled our nightly conversation, especially Mick's account of his horrible day, word for miserable word.

I was not concerned about our financial situation or angry at Mick for losing his temper with his boss - Elliott had certainly deserved it– but I was anxious how he was going to cope with this setback hitting him out of the blue, and at this point, too.

I turned my head towards his side of the bed and was not surprised to find it deserted. This was nothing unusual. He tended to get up early rather than toss and turn if he was having a bad night.

I was sure he'd be in the kitchen or in the garden with a mug of coffee and the morning paper, but there was only a note stuck under his used cup on the table.

_Gone for a walk._

I read it and sighed. His leg surely wasn't going to thank him for it, but I hoped it would at least serve to clear his mind and brighten his spirits up a little.

Colour had returned to his cheeks by the time he came back, but his eyes were still clouded with worry, and he said he had a bit of a headache, maybe a cold coming on. As if to confirm his suspicion, he sneezed a couple of times.

I didn't make much of it at first, saying I wouldn't be surprised if he had a bout of the sniffles after getting wet and cold twice in one day, and encouraged him to get some rest, pretty certain that he wouldn't.

But he did retire to the bedroom for a nap after lunch, and when I looked in on him hours later, he was still sleeping, sprawled across the big bed in his shirt and pants, snoring softly.

It was cool in there with the window open. I wanted to tell him to get under the covers to keep himself warm but hesitated to wake him. Instead, I sat on the edge of the bed and laid my hand on his cheek. It was hot to the touch, a little too hot for my taste.

"Mick", I whispered, gently squeezing his shoulder.

"Huh?" He squinted up at me from sunken eyes for a moment and quickly buried his face in the bedding again.

"You're baking hot", I said. "I think you've got a fever, and I think you should get into bed properly."

His only answer was an inarticulate groan.

I went to get some aspirin and a glass of water. By the time I returned, he had not moved an inch and remained quite apathetic as I set about undressing him, weakly shifting when I asked him to.

Wriggling into his pajamas was a major challenge, as was getting the medicine down. He lay back feebly after he'd swallowed the pills, shivering violently under the covers.

Things did not improve over night, as I had hoped they would. He woke again and again, coughing badly, and the next morning, his fever was raging worse than ever.

When I asked him how he was feeling, he gave me a long exhausted stare, as if trying to figure out the answer to a complicated question, before he hoarsely murmured, "Like shit, to put it mildly."

He certainly looked the part. I didn't like the glassy sheen his eyes had, or the extreme weakness that had come over him so suddenly. His forehead was damp and hot, but his hands were icy, and he complained that he was feeling terribly cold despite his flannel pajamas and the two additional woollen blankets I had piled on him some time during the night.

Grimacing as the baby was making itself felt with a hefty kick, I got up and decided to make some tea. I was sure he'd stubbornly insist he wasn't thirsty if I asked because he hated being fussed about, but with a fever like that, he needed to drink enough to keep him from dehydrating, and I was ready to force-feed him if I had to.

While the tea was brewing, I got dressed, pausing once or twice to catch my breath.

I prayed I would not get whatever it was that Mick had. Everything was strenuous enough anyway at this stage of the pregnancy, without a blocked nose or fits of coughing, to say nothing of the dangers a high fever might pose for both the child and myself.

I went back into the kitchen, arranged the teapot, a pitcher of water, a cup and a glass on a tray and took it into the bedroom.

I had already heard Mick coughing when I was still in the kitchen at the other end of the house, a racking noise that was pitiful to listen to, but what worried me a lot more was the way he clutched at his chest even after the attack had subsided, doubling over with a pained face, breathing rapidly.

"Does it hurt when you cough?" I asked, trying hard not to sound too alarmed. "Does it hurt when you _breathe? _Maybe we ought to phone the doc-"

"Ain't gonna need no doctor for a bit of a cold", he retorted angrily in a thick raspy voice as he slipped back under his heap of blankets, turning away from me. "Just keep giving me that disgusting tea and some aspirin and I'll be right as rain in a couple of days."

I was not convinced and silently resolved to phone Dr. Vandenberg if things were not looking up by the next morning.

After breakfast, if you could call a cup of tea that, he drifted back off into a fitful sleep, sweating profusely, his cheeks burning with an unnatural, blotchy pink, barely aware of anything that happened around him. Even when he was awake enough to sip a bit of water or tea mechanically, he seemed to look right through me.

My anxiety grew by the hour, and I rang the doctor that same night instead of the next morning because I was so afraid he would never wake up again if I waited too long.

It was Mrs. Vandenberg who answered, telling me her husband had been called away on another emergency but would be with us as quickly as he could.

It took him two and a half long hours to arrive.

Until then, I sat in the wicker chair by the bed while Mick was tossing and turning, occasionally wiped his sweaty brow with a cool flannel and otherwise felt very useless.

When Dr. Vandenberg finally came, looking tired from his previous house call but still exuding his reassuring, quietly professional authority, he had established in a matter of minutes that it was pneumonia, which should be no reason to worry in a young and healthy man if no complications arose.

I didn't dare ask what kind of complications he meant and nodded faintly when he said, "Keep him warm and dry, change the bed linens and his pajamas if necessary, keep him well hydrated. His fever should break within a day or two and he should be significantly better afterwards. It will take a while for the cough to subside completely, but the worst ought to be over within a week max. I've given him a penicillin shot for now. Have him take those" – he handed me a vial of antibiotic pills – "three times a day, and ring me if anything changes for the worse."

Apparently reading my thoughts, he added, "You don't need to be afraid of catching it if you observe the usual rules of hygiene – wash your hands frequently, don't drink from the same glass, and so on. Please try not to get too upset. He's going to be fine. Do take care of yourself, will you? Don't exert yourself. And don't hesitate to call if you need any help. I'm sure Georgina would be happy to …"

"Thanks, Doctor, I'm sure we'll manage." The last thing I needed was nosy Mrs. Vandenberg snooping around our home.

It was past midnight by the time the doctor had left. I felt utterly drained but at the same time strangely awake and lay staring into the darkness for a long while.

I had no idea where I was when someone softly laid a hand on my shoulder.

"I'm afraid your husband is dying, Mrs. Spence", a voice said calmly. An authoritative, competent voice, that of a doctor or a policeman or a solicitor.

I covered my mouth with my hand and gave a tearless sob before I realized something wasn't right.

I was about to say I didn't have a husband any more, that Phillip had been dead for a long time.

Until I looked at the figure on the low makeshift cot beside me.

A tall man, a good-looking man despite his pallor and his pained expression, but not the blond, slim scholar I had married.

_"Mick!"_

I cried, I shouted, I wailed his name, over and over again. "Mick, no … please, please, no! Do something, please, why don't you DO SOMETHING?" I yelled at the competent-voiced person whose face remained a blur.

"It's … too … late." A barely audible whisper from bluish lips. "Don't … fuss. There's nothing …" He could not speak any more, but the way he batted his eyelids, once, very slowly, told me more than I cared to know.

I threw myself across him, wondering briefly why my big belly wasn't getting in the way, and wanted to hold on to him, breathe my own life into him, but there was no substance to him, his body just dissolved beneath my touch.

I screamed in sheer terror and raged at the doctor, yes, I was sure now that was a doctor who had been talking to me earlier. I wanted to beat him up into a bloody pulp for failing to help my beloved man. I got up and raised my fists to strike him, but someone restrained me. I struggled fiercely, but to no avail, kept kicking out desperately - and awoke, heart racing, my legs tangled in the sheets.

Watery morning light was creeping through the curtains, and I heaved a deep sigh of relief. A tear or two escaped my eyes at the sight of Mick next to me, living, breathing Mick.

The dream had been so frightfully realistic that it took a while for my heart to resume its normal slow and steady rhythm, and it had certainly done nothing to soothe the fear I could not entirely push away, the fear that there would be complications in the end, that he would not fully recover, or not at all.

He had always been a heavy smoker, which surely must have taken its toll on his lungs, and who knew how robust his health really was after all he had been through in the war?

There had been the sepsis that had cost him his leg and almost his life. I wouldn't be surprised if such a thing left the immune system more vulnerable to disease. But it wasn't just that. He had once told me he'd been out with a severe bout of malaria during his tour of duty, an illness that was known to cause recurring episodes of high fevers that could be dangerous years and decades after the original infection, and nobody could say for certain that there wasn't another kind of tropical disease lying low somewhere within, waiting to take advantage of a weakened body.

An unbidden, terrible image of Phillip as he lay dying in the hot and muggy bedroom of our island home came to my mind. The passion and attraction between us might have been a thing of the past at the time, but I had still loved him in a way, and his death had robbed me of any chance to put things right.

Mick's quiet, unobtrusive presence had been the rock I clung to in the weeks after Phillip's funeral while I tried to come to terms with my guilt and grief by embracing the natives' traditional way of mourning. He had been there for me and helped make it all bearable in the end – both the loss of my husband and the shattering feeling I had failed him and left him to a slow lonesome death.

There was nothing that would make the loss of Mick bearable if this illness took a turn for the worse.

He remained largely unconscious all through the night and the following day and frequently bucked and twitched under the covers in the throes of horrible nightmares that must be taking him back _there_, into the heat of an embattled South Pacific island. There was a lot of moaning and crying out and miserable whimpers of fear or pain or both. Most of it was unintelligible, but a few times, I heard him shout clear, clipped orders in a voice very alien to me, the voice of a soldier, used to yelling commands, used to being heard and to being obeyed unconditionally.

In his brief waking moments, all he uttered was some dazed mumbling. He willingly let me help him drink from the freshly filled cup I offered him every time he emerged from his fitful sleep, as the doctor had instructed me to, or to spoon-feed him tiny quantities of the chicken broth I kept handy in a Thermos on the nightstand, but he hardly acknowledged my presence other than that.

I fervently hoped Dr. Vandenberg had been right and it would be over within forty-eight hours.

I wasn't sure if I could stand listening to his all-too-quick breathing and hacking cough much longer, to witness his suffering without being able to help him. I hated that all I could do was give him his antibiotics and plenty of fluid and wait for the fever to peak and peter out.

Time seemed to pass at once too fast and too slowly while I kept my watch. I hardly dared leave the room in case Mick needed something or his condition deteriorated rapidly, but I couldn't sit in the same position for long, so I kept shifting and moving to find a tolerable position in the wicker chair or on the bed, sometimes walking a few steps when my back tortured me. The occasional contraction made me wince once in a while, but it never felt like anything serious, and I silently implored the baby to hang on in there until Mick was doing better.

I don't know what I would have done without Joseph. He looked in on us daily, which was a great relief to me. He went to buy a few things we needed so I didn't have to leave the house and helped me change Mick's pajamas and the sweat-soaked sheets, something my advanced pregnancy would have made quite difficult to do alone.

And it was good to have someone to talk to and share my concerns with, and I so wanted to believe him when he said with great conviction, "He'll be okay, I'm absolutely certain. I've s-seen this a c-couple of times with m-my boys. It m-may look bad now, but the fever will break, and he's gonna be f-fine in no time."

But nothing much happened for another two days and nights. Mick remained benumbed and drowsy, the fever was still up. I began to wonder if this hadn't been going on for too long now and decided I would call the doctor again if there hadn't been any change by the late afternoon.

Joseph dropped by again after work, bringing a bag of fresh groceries, and stayed for about an hour, which took my mind off my anxiety for the time being.

When I came back into the bedroom after I had seen him off at the door, I sensed something was wrong.

It took me a moment to realize what it was.

I could not hear Mick's laboured breathing, and he was lying perfectly still.

_This is it, _I thought with a terrible hollow feeling in my stomach.

_He's gone._

I stood on the threshold, tears streaming down my cheeks, afraid to take a further step and see my worst nightmare confirmed.

Could that have been all? A mere five years together, and a baby left fatherless before it was even born?

All because of this bigoted, self-righteous, single-minded bastard who couldn't keep his nose out of his employees' private lives.

And, I had to admit, just as much because of Mick's complicated character.

It was so awfully like him to rather roam the streets in the rain for hours on end instead of simply coming home, confiding in me, ranting, swearing, cursing his misfortune and his big mouth.

It was pure Mick to go sit in the cold garden in the middle of the night, brooding and smoking and trying to deal with his problems by himself, even if he must have known it was no use.

His goddamn pride had killed him in the end, and I had not even been there when it happened.

"No", I whispered. "No, please, no."

A particularly nasty contraction ripped through my lower belly, and I clutched the doorjamb with a little groan, trying to breathe regularly, exhaling slowly through the mouth to ease the pain that was superseding any other thought or feeling for the moment, grinding my teeth until it abated.

A rustle of sheets, a thick hoarse voice asking, "Evelyn? Are you …"

I started and cried out, a peculiar sound of shock and joy and utter relief.

I literally flew across the room, big belly and contractions and all, laughing and crying at once as I sat on the edge of the bed and grabbed his hand.

It closed around mine tenderly, and I was glad to find it neither too hot nor too cold any longer. His face was pale, with dark half-moons beneath the eyes, and his chin and cheeks were black with several days' stubble, but his eyes were clear and focused without a trace of that feverish brightness, and he smiled his little crooked ironic smile.

"How are you feeling?" I asked.

"A little wrung out. Seems I've had it pretty bad", he said, and I nodded emphatically. "I guess you were right about me catching the cold of my lifetime out there in the garden."

I gave him a stern look. "Don't you ever do that again. I was starting to believe you were going to …"

"I haven't survived a war and all that other shit only to croak before I get to see my baby." He stroked my belly and asked, "How's the little lady?"

"She's …"

I had been about to say "fine", but all I could manage was a loud gasp when another cramp tore into my womb.

He was still holding my hand and squeezed back firmly as I held on to it until this second painful contraction had passed.

For a moment, I took heart from the fact that it had gone away quicker than the first one.

Then I felt a kind of pop and a warm wet rush between my legs.

I bit my lip and closed my eyes.

_Oh my God._

I must have said it aloud, for he sounded quite alarmed when he asked, "Evelyn? What's the matter? Anything wrong?"

I took a deep breath and said, "No, nothing wrong."

I paused for a second, trying to grasp that what I was about to say was true.

"Just our baby asking to be born."


End file.
